I didn’t smile.
Didn’t soften.
She was already in my world. Already in my shirt.
She’d kissed the edge of who I was and still hadn’t run screaming.
That was all the permission I needed.
Now?
She’d wear the ring.
And this time—she wouldn’t take it off.
She was still frozen moments later. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Shock washed over her like ice water.
“What are you saying?”
I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
I stepped in closer—voice low, steady, unshakable. “We get married. Tonight. No press. No bullshit. Just you and me.”
Her breath hitched.
There it was. That flicker of panic behind her eyes.
She pushed back like it would do anything. “You don’t even like me.”
I stared at her. Let the silence drag.
Like her liking me was required for what came next. Like I needed permission to claim what was already mine.
She was grasping at air now. “This isn’t real.”
“Real enough,” I snapped, voice clipped and dark. “Real when you came over my face.”
Every word I gave her tonight was a fucking gift, and she didn’t even know it.
She tried to retreat again. Create space.
There was none.
I followed. Slow. Relentless. Backed her up until her spine hit the counter. Didn’t touch her. The pressure was already there.
“You wore my shirt,” I said, tone cutting like glass.
Her face flushed—bright, guilty, angry.
I didn’t care what shade it was. It meant she felt something.
“You left his house,” I continued, voice like smoke. “And walked into mine.”
She sucked in a shaky breath.
I stepped closer—so close our chests barely brushed. “That ring fits because it was made for you.”
The words dropped between us like chains. Not romantic. Not soft. Just fact. Heavy. Final.
